


The Right Business

by hawknat



Category: CA:TWS - Fandom, Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort, Comfort Sex, F/M, Rough Sex, deaf!Clint, things somehow got explicit in the last chapter idek but you've been warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-02 03:06:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4043458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawknat/pseuds/hawknat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In spite of Strike Team Delta being dismantled once Hawkeye had gone into a reclusive state after losing his hearing, never let it be said that Clinton Francis Barton lets his teammates down. AKA what happens when Natasha and Steve take cover at Sam Wilson's home and a hawk shows up to help his spider.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scar Tissue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this whole story is unbeta'd so any errors are all on me. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Scar tissue.

That's all Natasha is now.

A wound, rippled through her insides, skin torn by the white hot metal of a speeding bullet, healed over with time by chance.

If there's a god, she doesn't know why the hell he's taking so long to pull the plug on her.

She rouses from her state of unconsciousness from the explosion an hour or so later with a headache that bleeds through her ears and seeps through her lungs. Her radar comes alive within seconds as she jumps into a fitful cough.

"Easy," comes Rogers' voice from her left.

Natasha eyes the man carefully as she coughs into her hand until her lungs stop rattling.

She doesn't hide her groan when the sun filters between the buildings into her eyes.

"Explosions are no fun," she croaks out, pouting a little.

She rolls her neck to find there's a pillow strategically placed behind her. And a seat belt strapping her in. A car. A _van_. 

"You hotwire a car again?" she says, pressing her fingers against her abdominal muscles to check for bruising and rule out internal bleeding. She glances at Steve again and he doesn't look her way this time, knuckles white on the wheel as he drives through vaguely familiar territory.

She taps down on her instinct to treat him like a hostile, offering small talk instead. She doesn't do well, being unconscious and moved around outside of her consent and all. And when she had peeled her eyes open it was the wrong man behind the wheel.

"Did you carry me and buckle me in? Not that I'm surprised or anything. That would be incredibly ungentlemanly of you to leave me there to die."

"You're asking a lot of questions. We did just barely survive a missile attack. Maybe take it easy, Romanoff," Steve responds with a nonchalance that's too ill-fitting for the setting they're in.

"Don't get all nostalgic. You'll make me vomit whatever organs I have left," Natasha jests, which rightfully earns her another set of coughs.

"You need to sit _back_ ," Steve warns her a second time, "You got hit pretty hard."

"Or what, you'll make me?" Natasha quirks an eyebrow, lacing her tone with flirtation to throw him off her scent.

She's not one hundred percent okay at the moment but Rogers doesn't need to know that.

It works when Steve stifles his blush by rearranging his posture in the driver's seat.

Natasha leans her head to get a look at the street signs, keeping her eyes low in case of facial recognition cameras. She strokes two subconscious fingers against the silver arrow beating on her chest while the shadows dance across her face. The flurried thoughts in her mind render something unpleasant on her tongue. Her hand falls away as the street signs eventually become familiar.

Turning her head back to Steve, she snaps her fingers to alert him.

"What's in Washington?" It's the first and last place they should be right now.

"A friend," Steve responds. "I hope," he grips the wheel tersely.

"Does Steve Rogers have friends?" Natasha raises an eyebrow.

It's a light joke, made in hopes to loosen him up. His face is hard, shadows passing over the sharp planes of his cheekbones. He moves listlessly, looking frigid and sad, and Natasha doesn't want to ask why. She knows why he looks so let down. It's the same reason she is. She won't involve herself in it, though. There can't be two people in the vehicle completely shutting down from the inside out. Her tactic is to stick to light jokes to keep the line of conversation on the idle side.

"Don't know. It's like two sides of a coin," Steve answers, "Like you."

"I prefer dice," Natasha counters, "Six sides with different quantities on every facet. A decision of chance weighing in palm of your hands. It's daunting but better that way. Keeps you sharp on your toes when you know your choices are limited."

"KGB? Did you choose that?" Rogers keeps his face hard but doesn't hide the salted hostility in his voice, "I knew you were Russian but that was...surprising," he makes a sharp left turn and Natasha realizes how familiar he is with this area. She works out who the 'friend' is in a heartbeat all while keeping a placid expression on her face in spite of the defensiveness his audacity ignites. The gears are working in her head on everything she knows about Sam Wilson. All she comes up with is that he's not SHIELD. Which is good enough in this predicament.

"Park the car near the next gas station just in case anyone decides to play detective," she alternates, looking back outside the window. She isn't having any of his melodramatic 'don't keep secrets from me, we're supposed to be a team' speeches.

Steve is a good man, a kind man, a thorough man. But there are some the things that are meant to stay in the ground. And there's only one man that knows everything- or at least as far as her mind believes is true- and that man is someone who can never be replaced. It's not just that the man she wants isn't here right now, it's also that it's unfair to Steve, to burden him with the knowledge of how multifaceted she is, how dangerous she is, how...tangled and knotted she is. Or perhaps there's some small part of her that's too stubborn to admit that even she doesn't want to lose Steve as a...well...whatever he is to her and vice versa.

What would Rogers have to say to her if she told him the number of times she put a bullet in a child's mouth? Or the time she helped orchestrate a hospital bombing in which hundreds were injured and killed? Or the time she stood between an arrow and a crumbling wall, blood mixed with tears and raw begging in her throat?

He'd either turn his back or offer his pity. Probably both.

And she wants neither from him.

She knows his trust of her is wavering in the space between friend or foe. And that's because Rogers is a smart man. And she can respect that. It's best to keep him at arm's length. He'll outlive her, surely. But he'll never know a thing about who and what she truly is other than the fact that she's been his comrade for a period of time. It's a kindness mixed with self-preservation, keeping him on the outside. Everyone has their own demons. She'll keep hers between herself and her archer.

As Natasha suggests, they ditch the van across the street from a local gas station where it'll be towed away in minutes.

Her legs feel like there's white noise instead of flesh and bones. The gravity hits her in waves once she starts walking. She hides the uneasiness in her joints from Steve before the man offers to carry her again. She's frustrated that the explosion really screwed with her composure. Her vision isn't as spotty as it had been when she first blinked her eyes open.

At least she still has all her teeth in her mouth. And two eyes and ten fingers and toes. She's guessing they got crushed under some debris. The last thing she remembers is huddling under Rogers' shield as soon as the bird hit the base. That makes it the third time Steve saved her with his shield. Her debt list grows by the second... She figures it'll take about a day and a half before she's close to one hundred percent again.

She wants some vodka. And ice. And painkillers.

And Clint, dammit.

"We're almost there," Steve starts slowing down when he sees Natasha is lagging behind. She fixes a warning glare on him while picking up her steps.

The overall neighborhood bears the appearance of peaceful. The sound of canvas sneakers slapping against the pavement and laughter filling the air is uncomfortably refreshing. Some kids kick a pink ball amongst each other while obscure indy rock plays on one of their portable speakers.

Natasha can't help but admire their oblivion to all things cursed in the world right now. She even notices the way Steve bows his head low to avoid one of the children noticing Captain America and drawing attention to them. It happened once when they were in the mall, a boy with his mouth in a wide 'O' shape as he tugged on his mother's coat sleeve impatiently.

She checks his gait to see if he's even scratched from the explosion. His stance betrays nothing of course. The only thing that stands out is the inconspicuous (at least to her) spherical object on his back where he hides his shield under his coat. It's convenient that his shoulder-shield ratio is just about the same otherwise he wouldn't be fooling any one within thirty feet.

Out the corner of her eye, Natasha spies red pigtails flying in the air as a little girl, no more than nine years old, tumbles to the ground. Both she and Steve clench up at the sense of a brewing altercation. One of the boys knocked her over to get the ball and the game skids to a halt as everyone points fingers and no one accepts the blame.

They keep on walking. It's not their business.

For Rogers it's idle child's play. Nothing he hasn't seen growing up in the heart of Brooklyn.

The red pigtails were a jarring reminder for Natasha, causing her to lock up her muscles and hurry on faster.

Steve leads them to a fenced white two-story home at the far end of the block, windows shaded with haphazard grass growing around the stairs. There's an obscure rocking chair on the porch that hasn't seen warmth in months and a matching table angled adjacently from it. Wilson doesn't like sleeping at home too often then. For a period of time she saw the same pattern in Clint when he came back from an undercover military op. She knows a shell-shocked soldier when she sees one.

"I don't think he's home," Steve starts.

"He is," Natasha confirms, flickering her eyes over the windows as if she can see through the walls.

Steve raises an unsure hand to the door like he's sorry for what he's about to do. He pauses mid-breath like he might just turn around and hightail it.

Natasha step has to step up and knocks for him. She gets four good raps in before she hears heavy boots thudding behind the door.

"Told you so," Natasha mumbles as they step back respectively.

The shades on the right window zip up.

"Hey man," Sam Wilson, hiding his body behind the opened door cautiously, runs his eyes over the two agents. He looks as if he's just woken up from a nap. The sleep hasn't entirely left his face.

Natasha gives him a sympathetic look of **_believe me, I know how this looks_** , prepared to put on whatever charm it takes to get inside.

"Sorry to do this," Steve says it and he means it, "But we had no other place to go." He leaves out the part about SHIELD/Hydra sending missiles after them.

"Everyone we know is trying to kill us," Natasha spills the truth anyway, milking a tone of helplessness in.

It's enough to knock the sleep right out of Wilson's face. He doesn't even second guess his next move.

"Not everyone," he speaks with assurance, opening the door fully and rushing them inside.

His home pretty much confirms Natasha's previous observations. It's sparsely furnished, with no real life to it- all thermal greys and a blue and burgundy here and there. There are a few boxes in corners that will probably never be opened. Wilson must have moved in months ago. And he's still moving in from the looks of it. Not that she's complaining. Natasha knows what it's like to never finish unpacking. She sees what Steve sees in the man. Kindred spirits. A chain-less anchor in the sea while life moves on.

"You two look like you took a tumble through the woods or something," Sam says, waving a hand towards their rugged appearance.

Natasha is sure she has soot on her face and debris in her hair and clothes. But leave it to Steve to come out generally unscathed.

"We got blown up by a missile," Steve elucidates without preamble.

Sam opens his mouth and then closes it, nodding slowly. During his last tour, he had barely come out of it when a bird hit his base from behind enemy lines. Last time he checked, black ops agents didn't get blown to shrapnel and ash by missiles.

The Captain stands in the hallway sullenly with his arms behind his back and the redhead parrots his pose though her face is a blank sheet. They look like they need to get off their feet.

"I was going for something a little less extreme. You know, Everyday stuff," Sam invites them to sit at the table, his jaw dropping a second time when Rogers angles his shield gingerly against the wall.

"We're not those kinds of people," Natasha quips, " _Or at least I'm not_." she adds under her breath in clipped Russian. It's too quick and low for anyone to catch. The chairs are uncomfortable, too stiff and loud when they screech against the hardwood floors.

"She's not wrong about that," Rogers adds in a doubly sarcastic way.

"So I'm harboring the Captain and his redheaded partner in crime," Sam nods.

"The name's Natasha Romanoff," Natasha says, "Ex-Agent."

"Of what?" Wilson asks.

"That's the part I'm still figuring out," she retorts candidly. She hopes she doesn't sound as hurt as she feels.

Wilson dips into his kitchen, where you can see through the archway and moves things around before joining them at the dining room table.

"How long do you think you'll need to stay here? Because if we're talking missiles and covert government attacks, I'm going with at least a week and change. Maybe more to be safe."

"Two days. Three max," Natasha declares.

Steve nods in agreement while Sam takes it all in strides.

"What do you guys need?" he's prepared to offer anything that he has.

"Right now? A bath. A bed. A warm meal," Steve answers honestly.

"Would you like a bedtime story with that too?" Sam jokes as he folds his arms across his chest.

Steve actually laughs and Natasha cracks a smile, admiring the camaraderie between the two soldiers. They've done this before, obviously. Steve has friends after all. Imagine that. A man out of time and he fits in better than she ever will.

But of course he does. Natasha has to remind herself that Rogers wasn't kidnapped and brainwashed to become an assassin from the age of six. She has to remember that at least his memories are real, etched in stone, captured in time, his sacrifices immortalized in museums and history textbooks.

Her memories are a giant net, cast out desperately for something palpable. Her memories are the feel of gunmetal, the smell of copper, the sound of IV drips, and the taste of salt on her tongue. A hell of its own kind.

She's scar tissue indeed. And this time it hits home. The mantra lingers on her mind like aftertaste. Nothing lasts forever.

She's grateful when Rogers and Wilson become immersed in conversation as he fills him in on SHIELD/Hydra and she has a moment to herself.

For the second time, her fingers find purchase on her arrow necklace and her nails dig sharp little crescents into the palms of her hands.

_Wherever you are, you better be alright._

It's too soon to run the risk of making any phone calls right now. Natasha has to trust that if Clint was safe enough to call, he would. It can only be assumed that with Hydra out in the open, he has to be in danger.

She hasn't seen or heard from Barton since they parted ways before the Lemurian Star op. He got sent to Bali to snuff out illegal dealers and see the pre-assigned task team back to base while she was rescuing SHIELD hostages off a launch ship.

Six and a half months prior to his deployment, Clint lost his hearing in an unforeseen attack by a demented Polish criminal named Kazimierz. He had been set up by a false source point, outnumbered, and overwhelmed by the men who attacked him.

Natasha had found him on the floor screaming his throat raw while covering his ears. He had been stabbed by Kazimierz in both his ears with his own arrows.

The arrowheads had severed his ear drums, causing substantial damage to his middle and inner ear. Clint had been declared deaf as a result of the attack. He heard essentially nothing, save for an extremely muffled hum that could only be picked up if he stood shock still and the sounds were steady enough. At least that's as far as he told Natasha one day when she had asked ~~(pleaded with)~~ him to describe what he was feeling.

When they had left the SHIELD medic ward with documentation for Clint's deafness and advised treatments (all of which he adamantly refused), their relationship had turned into an agonized strain.

Clint regressed to a stagnated lump, sealing himself off from Natasha.

His performance at SHIELD had lagged to an eventual stop. Clint failed to keep up with the other agents, he failed to attend mission consultations at minimum, and he even avoided the shooting gallery- one of his natural habitats- like the plague.

Clint hadn't asked her to but Natasha took on the role as his proxy anyways. Hell, she went as far as defending Clint's honor against any agent who dared sneer his name within earshot. When Hill had offered Barton as desk job in sympathy, Natasha declined it, knowing that he had too much pride to answer phone calls and submit reports on missions he should have been on.

That's what she had done while he was locking himself away- protect him that is.

None of it mattered much. Certainly not to the man in her defense.

He still had refused to cooperate with her for a period of time. If he wasn't locked in his quarters at HQ he was in his apartment doing nothing but feeling sorry for himself because he thought he was less than.

Natasha tried pushing him to pick up his bow and urged him on more than one occasion to pick up sign language. It's not that she was trying to cure him or force him into a mold that he couldn't fill anymore. She was just trying to give him the needle and thread to him mend himself. She just wanted him to do something about his situation instead of shutting down every time she came near.

The last few months were filled with challenges that pushed Natasha to the edge. They had fought in one form or another. The biggest hurt was mostly the silence of it all. She prefers her altercations to be physical. His attacks were enveloped in quiet.

Clint's angry glares at the wall when he thought no one was looking felt like a dagger tearing through her lungs. His small pleads when he told her to leave felt like lacerations all across her skin. His refusal to warm up to her touch when she tried taking his hand or threading her fingers through his hair were like having her ribs shattered.

Strike Team Delta was forcibly dismantled by the Board once Hawkeye gave up on abiding by field agent regulations. His psych evals were shot to hell to the point where Fury had to yell in his face (pointless) about his sulking and put him on leave until further notice. Clint had all too willingly packed his bags and retired indefinitely to his apartment in Manhattan.

But even if Natasha lost her partner in the field, she didn't want to lose who _is_ to _her_.

Somewhere during that timeline of leave, Natasha snuck into his apartment and dropped off ASL course textbooks, DVDs, and brochures on hearing loss to give him some kind of initiative. She had signed _**you try** _ to let him know she was counting on him.

She was sure to educate herself on the varying degrees of deafness and deaf culture. She even went as far as researching how to be accommodating to a deaf partner. She stayed up for days on end, eyes burning with need for sleep, restlessly studying sign language to become as fluent as possible. Someone had to try.

Eventually Barton found it in him to see his SHIELD-assigned ENT specialist and audiologist and a physical therapist to help combat his equilibrium issues. He was a candidate for top grade hearing aids and got tested and fitted for them immediately.

Their relationship had seen better days but at least Clint was focused on getting better, getting better than he ever was at being Hawkeye. There was no way he'd be able to shoot the same. He needed to rebuild himself with and without the assistance of hearing aids. He was training all that time, relearning his flexibility and balance and aim.

Natasha ended up positioned on another Strike Team headed by none other than Captain Rogers. And Clint's improvement earned him an invitation back to SHIELD.

His reward was the mission in Bali before everything came crashing down in bright red flames.

Their goodbye wasn't even a real goodbye, Natasha thinks, tracing a melancholic finger against the arrow around her neck. It was bittersweet at best. Even though it was Clint's first op since everything that happened, they still had words that needed to be said to each other.

Natasha still regrets not tasting his lips before leaving.

All she has now is a memory of Clint's calloused thumb stroking her cheek, a sad smile on his face before he boarded the Quinjet. All she has now is a memory of her cheeks burning and how she blinked away the one tear that sat at the edge of her eyelid.

Now things are crumbling down and there's still brick and mortar that has to be peeled away to unveil the full truth. Fury was murdered. SHIELD is a lie. And the one man who's supposed to have her back at every angle can't be contacted.

Natasha disguises her sigh in slow breaths, moving her fingers away from her necklace before the two men in front of her notice her actions.

An eery jingle sounds from her back pocket.

Both Wilson and Rogers jump up.

"What was that?" Sam asks carefully.

Natasha answers his question by pulling out her phone where that same creepy noise repeats itself. She forgot she had it with her. She hadn't even felt it pressing against her when she sat first down or when she was in the car earlier.

"How did that phone make it out of the explosion?" Steve is in disbelief.

"Someone might be tracking you," Sam adds, looking out the windows in case they're having some unexpected visitors, "You should have trashed it."

"The phone is untraceable," Natasha keeps her face blank even though there's nothing but anxiousness beneath the surface when she reads the caller ID. "Trust me." 

"Yet someone is calling you right now," Sam reminds her.

"There's only one person in the world who has this number," she brings the phone up to her ear, flicking her hair over her shoulder.

" _Вы_ _в безопасности?_ " she demands in low gravelly Russian and it startles the two soldiers. " _где вы_?"

Sam and Steve can hear a voice on the other line. A man. It sounds like he's speaking in like tongue but slower.

"не идут SHIELD," Natasha dares Steve to open his mouth when she mentions SHIELD, "мне нужно несколько вещей.  Спешите." She speaks with a kind of cadence that Rogers assumed she was incapable of having.  


Natasha hangs up after exchanging more words with the mystery man on the other line. She slides her phone back in her pocket, inhaling as if she was holding her breath the entire time. She hadn't heard his voice in so long, it felt she was colliding with sea waves.

"Why the Russian?" Wilson's voice is laced with tension.

"Because I _am_ Russian."

"Who was that?" Rogers inquires, having learned how Natasha likes to deflect. "I heard you mention SHIELD. Who were you talking to about SHIELD?" He knows next to zero Russian but he knows Slavic languages have a common thread and he picked something up about 'don't go'. She had gone from stone to soft in seconds. It was _strange_ and suspicious.

"That was Hawkeye," Natasha answers sharply and suddenly Steve understands it now.

"Agent Barton? I thought he went- I thought SHIELD dropped him? After he went-" Steve stumbles over his words while Natasha's glare hardens on him. "Where is he?" he tries instead.

"I gave him our coordinates," Natasha replies. "We should expect him tomorrow morning at best. I need him to collect some things that will help us first."

" _Who_ are we talking about?" Sam cuts in.

"Her partner."

"My partner."

Natasha and Steve answer simultaneously. Natasha raises an eyebrow at Steve.

"You mean he's an agent too?" Sam asks, face lighting up. Both Rogers and Natasha nod. "Just because he's an agent doesn't mean he's not Hydra. He could be setting you up."

"He fought with The Avengers. He's a friend. An ally. And my partner. I trust him with my life. I _know_ him, Wilson." Natasha ensures, nails burrowed in the palm of her hands as she taps down on her protectiveness of her partner. Of freaking course Clint isn't Hydra. He couldn't hide that from her, certainly not among everything else that they were dealing with. She doesn't doubt for a second that Clint is just as much on the outside as the rest of them are. SHIELD was more or less his home. And Clint revered Fury too much to be a traitor. He put too much value into that place and is too uncompromising of his morals to be some Hydra goon.

Sam relaxes his nerves. Natasha's confidence is concrete and she has it written all over her face. They had best take her word as peremptory.

"I fought side by side with him. I believe her," Steve adds, just to be safe. "He's a good man."

"What's he going to do for you guys to get you out of this situation?" Wilson inquires instead.

"He has information that's going to lead us to our next target," Natasha responds. "Starting with all the hostages that were on the Lemurian Star."

"Great," Sam nods, as satisfied as he can get with this situation, "I guess I better go prepare the guest rooms in the meantime."

When he treads up the stairs, Natasha actually closes her eyes and tilts her head back, running a steady hand through her hair.

"You have a way of being very defensive over Barton, you know that?" Steve tells her when she opens her eyes.

"We're supposed to have each other's backs. I can't help being protective of my partner."

"It's more than trust though," Steve sees right through her this time, "It's life and death, isn't it."

Natasha nods plainly.

"Yes. It is."

If there is a god, she figures he must know her time just isn't up yet.


	2. Realizations

The thing about hearing aids, Clint quickly realized early on, is that contrary to popular belief, they're not a cure in any sense of the word. And in spite of what that SHIELD experts told him, they only do about sixty or seventy percent of the job. The head audiologist at SHIELD told him that because of the severity of his deafness he was a great candidate for cochlear implants. The man crashes through skyscraper windows and gets his head kicked in for a living. The least appropriate thing would be for him to have a magnet surgically placed beneath his skull.

Aside from having bullets whiz past your ear and the impact of heightened sound nearly knocking him off his feet, BTEs have been the only thing that works best for him in the field. Their functionality is mostly contingent upon the person.

For instance, the bonus of BTE hearing aids is that you can manually remove them at any time for whatever reason and they can be adjusted to change the range of noise it picks up. The main con (more or less) is that they amplify noise according to Clint's deafness.

As in if he's eighty percent deaf, the aids let in noise upon that specific ratio. That eighty percent deafness is his constant of sound no matter what fancy tech SHIELD tries to slide to him on a silver platter. Until one of those science freaks come up with a way to isolate singular sound waves so he can focus on noise of choice instead of everything at once, he'll have to compromise.

Compromise: the theme of his life, if he wants to stroke his chin and ponder the world.

Except he can't afford to do any of that right now because one- he's laying flat on his stomach on the top of a building. And two- he has his sniper rifle trained on the window of his partner's apartment and he can't make any sudden moves.

He's a few hundred feet away from his targets whose identities remain a current mystery.

He had to pay the doorman to allow him rooftop access to this apartment building.

Leave it to Natasha to move to a classy neighborhood where doormen have to bribed to turn a blind eye to an ex-Avenger (ambiguous since the Avengers Initiative was a SHIELD operation and SHIELD is currently not-SHIELD) and assassin with a sniper rifle on his back.

Clint fiddles with the auditory settings on his hearing aids, scraping his elbows on the pebbled flooring in the process. He has to mind his surroundings because god forbid someone decide to have martinis on the roof while he's trying to figure out why the hell there are men standing in his partner's bedroom.

He tries not to let his mild annoyance climax at anything other than just that. He knows for a fact that last year, he would have had no problem picking up even the slightest lick of noise. Now he's forced to be even more alert and conscious of any change in the air.

Barton had first noticed that something wasn't right when he stepped out of the cab and immediately noticed that Natasha's bedroom curtains were wide open. Which was odd. Because Natasha never has her bedroom curtains open unless Clint is there. But she's in Washington DC right now. And he just arrived in New York City to collect things for both of them.

So who the hell was in her apartment- in her bedroom nonetheless?

Clint had taken an alternate route, taking a shortcut in-between the buildings after deciding his best bet was looking in from a ways away. So he picked an apartment building that was a sensible distance from hers to set up the sniper rifle he'd been carrying on his back and gauge the situation.  
He keeps one eye peeled open on the scope, flicking the dial to switch the vision from heat vision to sonar. It's like looking at live blueprints for the building and far more reliable than heat signatures.

Twelve men in total are spread out on the two separate floors of her apartment. Four in Natasha's bedroom, one in each bathroom, three in the dining room, two in the kitchen, and one guarding the entrance to her door.

The scope makes a winding noise as he zooms in. He sees the unfailingly familiar eagle emblem on each of their sleeves.

Clint gnaws at his bottom lip the same way the connection he makes gnaws at his conscious.

Tasha warned him not to go to SHIELD. Hill told him SHIELD was compromised. His own team attacked him while he was in Bali and he had to flee. And now this. Why SHIELD? What are they doing? Trying to kill off their top agents? Trying to send a message? Is this the Board's doing?

He grips the barrel of the rifle. He knows he has to move now and ask questions later.

Natasha's windows are reinforced with one inch thick bullet resistance glass layered with acrylic. He could focus-impact the glass by shooting continual rounds into the surface until it breaks. But what good would that do at a time like this?

He's in the kind of neighborhood where people don't know how to mind their damn business and there are multiple trained SHIELD agents anticipating the Black Widow and mostly likely are nothing short of trigger-happy.

Silence is crucial in this instance. That and precision in a timely manner.

His fingers ache for his bow and arrow. A sabot tip followed by a grapple and he would have dealt with the assailants in the apartment in a heartbeat. He can't afford any onlookers. Especially now that he's behind enemy lines. It doesn't help that Natasha lives in the penthouse and it's practically a fortress. Good for you if you're on the inside. Bad for you if you're on the outside.

 _That's it_ , Clint concludes, his muscles thanking him when he finally moves to angle the scope upwards. The sun glints off the metal of the vent on the rooftop like a godsend.

The vent is his way in.

Natasha knows that Clint uses them whenever he doesn't want to be seen entering her apartment. It's the only vulnerability the place has. As uncompromising as she's ever been about her security measures, Clint is still grateful for her decision to take that risk to cater to his comfort. Though it's been a long time since he used the vents, he figures it's still safe. No one ever considers the ventilation system.

Those SHIELD-not-SHIELD agents had to have picked the lock or lit a fuse to break the knob open to get inside her apartment. Clint wonders what organization they presented themselves as to get through the elevator. Exterminators? A research organization? A ballet recruitment company? FBI? CIA? Undisclosed?

He grunts to himself to snap out of his thoughts and get moving.

Rolling up to his knees, Clint quickly dissembles his sniper rifle. It's all fluid muscle memory as Clint feels the telltale click in his fingers while separating the units. He folds the tripod into a narrow rectangle and places it its respective compartment in the backpack.

He pulls his trusty P30 semi-automatic handgun from a separate compartment, replaces the bullets with tranqs, rolls a silencer on the muzzle, and clicks the safety on before packing it under his belt.

Thank goodness he'd switched to some civilian clothes after flying out of Bali. He looks like the average joe with a black backpack, save for anyone nosy enough to realize he's been around here on multiple occasions. Especially to see the mystery redhead who lives on the top floor.

It's not like this experience is a novel one. He's done recon ops that lasted for months on end where the people became familiarized with whichever alias he was under at the time. He has sniped out targets through their bedroom windows from tiled roofs. He has taken people out while hiding in a tree as children beneath him obliviously ran across the playground.

The difference between now and then is that there's no Coulson barking out orders in his comms, there's no Widow in the other ear calmly giving him rendezvous directions while he guides his arrows. There's no SHIELD to back him up, no department in charge of damage control and no black ops agents in charge of cleanups in case any loose ends need to be snipped.

It's just Clinton Francis Barton, the Amazing Hawkeye, sans his much-preferred bow and arrow.

It's no picnic but it's not impossible either.

He ignores every pull and creak of his muscles and joints as he takes a running start and scales across the rooftop to another. He has the wrong shoes on and the vibration from the jarring impact of his landing makes his legs rattle.

He dodges the fans and antennae and potted shrubbery.

A group of clouds froth the sky and block the glaring sun from his eyes. It's not his eyes he's worried about though.

The sound of his feet reverberating across the rooftops are sharp on his hearing aids. It's crinkly, like it's playing through a recording. The echoes make him unsure of how loud he actually is. Noise coming in from every direction nauseates him and he has to tamp down on it. His footing becomes graceless and hesitant. The familiar wave of dizziness pounds at the surface of his skull and Clint shakes his head, focusing on the force of the concrete traveling up his legs.

Up ahead awaits a flock of pigeons, just what he needs, blocking his path.

"Sorry to disrupt your communion here but get out of the way!" Clint yells, waving his hand to startle them. He spits a feather out his mouth as the pigeons coo in panic, flapping their wings haphazardly like he actually frightened them.

Ducking under the flock, he almost crashes into a table that isn't even supposed to be there.

"Shucks!" Clint gasps.

The rubber on the heels of his shoes make an unholy screech as he skids to the side to avoid collision.

He gathers his breath before lunging to the next roof. He tucks his knees under his butt and rolls to lessen the brunt as soon as his feet touch the concrete.

Clint cups his ears, checking to make sure his hearing aids didn't fall out when he had jumped. He huffs the dusty rooftop air out of his lungs and whacks a tree branch out of his way as he stands on the ledge to survey the distance between this building and the next.

The apartments are too far apart.

And maybe in his younger years he would have obtained enough velocity to make it to the next rooftop. But he knows that physics aren't particularly in his favor. Not today. Not with his bum knee and the cuts on his abdomen and his equilibrium working against him. He'll make the edge of the roof if he's lucky.

Clint jumps anyway.

The force of the wind travels from his face to the pit of his stomach where the unmistakable queasy feeling reminds him of his mortality. The only noise that he makes is a small grunt as his fingers take purchase on the nearest fire escape of the opposite building.

His knuckles are bone-white as he grips the metal bar. He breathes lighting-quick in and out of his nose before glancing downwards. Height has never been an issue for him. This compared to the likes of skyscrapers in Dubai and Hong Kong is nothing short of laughable.

Below him, the people are still oblivious. Cars and taxis and bikes blend in with the rest of the traffic. One small slip and he would joined the rest of them as a mesh of blood bones and brains on the pavement. Human pudding. And dead.

Clint breathes through the pounding in his chest before he swings his legs over. He toys with the bars on the fire escape, testing how sturdy the construction is. It's not unbearably wobbly to say the least. Hasn't been used in years from the looks of it. Satisfied, he yanks the ladder down and begins his journey upwards through the fire escapes.

Halfway there, he nearly slips over the edge when his eyes meet two sparkling brown eyes that belong to a little boy.

The kid is at least seven years old. He's staring at Barton from what appears to be his bedroom window. His mouth is wide open, revealing a gap where two of his bottom teeth would be. There's an applesauce (Clint hopes) stain on his shirt and in one clenched fist is an Iron Man doll and in the other is a Captain America one.

Perhaps because he's not a man of the world, he didn't realize people were still marketing Avengers merchandise. He imagines Stark must endorse those companies big time. Suits the man's ego. After the Battle of New York, Rogers had adopted a low-profile though Clint doesn't doubt the man has been recognized on missions from time to time. He's a walking billboard. SHIELD ought to have supplied him with a subtler suit. Clint never had to worry about him and Natasha. The Widow and the Hawk just barely flew under the radar of the public eye. There were some prints with an obscure description of a catsuited redhead and a sullen archer but other than that, no one markets assassin merchandise.

Clint pauses, one foot on the next ladder, one foot still on the flooring.

He's trying to figure out if the boy is going to scream or not.

The kid's lips start to quirk.

Clint brings a finger to his mouth mimicking a zipping motion. _You better zip your trap_ is written all across his face. He usually doesn't mind children and often converses with them when he's on missions sometimes to blend in but mostly just because. The boy looks like a smart kid but now isn't the time to engage in chitchat.

The boy closes his mouth to a thin line and nods, brown eyes obediently averting to his toys.

Barton nods appreciatively and continues his path all the way to the top of the building. He moves swiftly enough that no one else notices.

Clint can see Natasha's bedroom intimately from here. Her building is the next one over.

He's counting on the fact that the SHIELD agent aren't looking out her windows because they're all waiting for the Black Widow to blindly waltz into her apartment into their trap. He's counting on the estimation of time it'll take to leap over the gap to the next building to fly completely under their radar.

Clint lands on the roof of her apartment with better ease than he's had all morning.

He hurries over to the vent poking out the ground and kneels down in front of it. The bolts are loose from the constant use, even if Clint knows it's been many months since he used them. He unhinges the vent opening without any difficulty, thanking the vent gods that the metal didn't squeal too loudly into the open air. He gingerly settles the casing on the ground.

Here Clint has the advantage of knowledge and experience. This vent leads straight to Natasha's kitchen which is where the special knives are hidden as well.

One foot at the lip of the entrance, he slides his silenced gun out. It won't be as quiet as an arrow and it certainly won't cut through air as finely as an arrow would. It can disable the men, however. And for all intents and purposes that's precisely what Clint plans on doing. Killing them had been his initial consideration. But it would be messy. Probable, but messy regardless. But murder isn't the message he's trying to send back to SHIELD and Natasha would give him hell for getting blood and organs all over her walls and floors. Though, Clint figures, after this schism comes to a head, there will be no returning to New York City. Not for a long, long time.

He takes a breath before sliding down into the dark abyss of the vent. He doesn't need to see to know where he's going. He'll keep moving until he hits a wall and crawl towards the adjacent space.

The air inside the vent is dense and the confined space does little to help Clint's comfort. The friction between his jeans and the four metal walls hinders his efforts to be surreptitious. He presses ever so slightly against the walls while he slithers through. The wiggle room he'd normally have is restricted by his backpack.

His BTEs take in every huff he makes, every scrape of his knees on the flooring, and that unwavering hum of air in the enclosed space. He's just about tempted to turn his hearing aids off. Sometimes he functions better in absolute silence than sensory overload.

Clint takes comfort in the fact that he's taken this route more than enough times to know how long it takes to get where he's going.

Familiar tones of light filter into the walls mixed with the broken sound of radio static and the thud of heavy boots.

 _You've got serious company, Barton_ , Clint thinks when his face is inches away from the vent opening and he can see straight inside Natasha's kitchen.

Two men in all black with the SHIELD emblems stitched into their uniforms stand with their backs to Clint. They're not speaking to each other but they spare glances towards each other's directions every few seconds. Their radios are tuned to each other's corresponding frequencies. It's a report system usually applied when there are multiple targets in one location. That's exactly a way of many to describe the Black Widow. They look tense but they look armed and ready. They look the way SHIELD agents are supposed to look.

Clint clicks the safety off his gun and presses the muzzle right up against the bar.

As soon as he hooks his finger around the trigger, he hesitates.

For a moment, it feels questionable. He might know some of these men. He can't see their faces but he can see in their gait and posture that they're seasoned agents who have been around since his early years at SHIELD.

Some of these men are just agents following orders. Some of them are drones at this point. What the hell do they know about anything other than _yes sir, i accept sir, affirmative sir_?

 ** _N o_** , Clint shakes his head, shifting as if to shake the doubtful thoughts from his brain. There's no space for excuses here. He knows he has a penchant for following his instincts, even if that means going against basic code. His autonomy was bred from within since he was a small boy. But SHIELD could have broken him if they really wanted to. One slip and he could be just as much a drone as the rest of these men. There's no helping them here, no arguments here. They have a one-track mind.

He knows this kind of set up.

He sees the gear they're packing, sees the protective armor they're wearing, and sees the anticipatory fingers on the triggers. Clint has been assigned to these squadrons more than enough times. It's the mission you get sent on when an agent goes rogue and you along with several other agents track them down and send them a bullet courtesy of Nicholas J. Fury.

They're not here to show Natasha mercy. They're here to murder her. Like his own team tried to do to him. To hell with morals and shadows of doubt.

Clint adjusts the muzzle of his gun between the bars.

One eye closed and one eye open he readies his aim and fires.

One.

Two.

Two silent tranquilizers hit their calves. They wobble and collapse to the floor, falling unconscious.

First two men down.

Ten more to go.

Clint doesn't have a moment to celebrate his triumph. He shifts until he's laying flat on his back, winds his right leg back (his bum knee on the left leg does him no good) and juts it forward with enough force to kick the vent casing forwards.

The metal shrieks as it clatters onto the marble floor.

A second later one of the radios crackle with static. A burly-sounding man speaks.

" **Agent Stanton, report**."

Clint hops down to the ground, leaving no time to run to the counter and drag his fingers underneath the stainless steel until he finds a little toggle switch. He flicks it forward and the stainless steel hisses as a hidden drawer slides out. A beautifully organized assortment of special knives that aren't meant for dicing onions are arranged in a blood-red velvet case. Clint smiles, knowing that Natasha loves these knives as if she birthed them herself. She'll be happy to see them again.

" **Stanton, report**." the radio buzzes again between static.

Clint tucks three throwing knives in his belt on his right hip and two larger daggers on his left hip.

" **Stanton, report, dammit**!"

Moving hastily, Clint kicks the offending radio towards the door where the man who's radioing is soon going to storm through soon. He lowers himself behind the island in the center of the kitchen and waits.

The door cracks against the wall, but Clint anticipates it. He doesn't budge even as his BTEs crackle sharply in his ears. Angry footsteps come beating against the marble floor.

The agent chokes out an expletive when he stumbles upon the two other agents out could on the ground.

Clint can't see him but he counts the steps and relies on the accuracy of his BTEs to determine where he's standing.

The radio squeaks and before the agent can call for back up, Clint stands ramrod straight and shoots a tranq into his shoulder. The agent swallows, his eyes wide with both recognition and shock, before joining the rest of his teammates on the floor.

After Clint is sure no one else came behind him, he comes around to scan each body for ID.

Some names he's seen on the SHIELD database before. They're disposable agents. Technically they all ~~were~~ are, including himself and Natasha. They get assigned to two-way missions. Either you die or the enemy dies and that's as complicated as it gets. Even though apprehending the Black Widow goes beyond the word "complicated".

Clint hears more footsteps thudding down the hall and agents shouting orders.

The door bangs against the wall again.

"We have three men down. Target is in the kitchen!" someone yells.

A spray of bullets decorate Natasha's cabinet where she keeps her coveted Russian porcelain.

Clint tucks himself on the counter in the corner, brings one arm out and shoots twice. The continuous thudding noises lets him know the first two shooters are down.

He hurls the metal trash can at a third shooter's head before rolling forward and taking cover back behind the island. Bullets chase his path and sprinkle up the wall. The pots on the rack above the stove ping, pang, and clatter to the ground.  _Maybe these guys aren't as seasoned as I thought,_ Clint gives them the benefit of the doubt. He's not considered the world's greatest marksman (and) master assassin for nothing. He inches to the other side of the island, slowly creeping around to lure the next agent around the corner.

The rubber on his boot squeaks against the marble floor.

Damn.

The agent whips his gun around. Clint has less than one second to act. Punching SHIELD armor isn't the brightest idea but he has the pleasure of hearing some bones crack when the heel of his foot collides with his knee before shooting a tranq in his bared neck.

Taking on multiple men at once isn't exactly his idea of a good time. This is more up Natasha's alley. Clint has never been a fan of physical contact and while his hand-to-hand combat can rival Natasha's once in a blue moon, he has always seen better from a distance. He favors his arrows to a handgun and he prefers to be higher up. He has more control that way. More time to calculate and carry out. His adrenaline comes height, from all-around access. He likes the intimacy of distance.

Clint shoots two more agents down in clean precision, crouching down as bullets ripple across the refrigerator all the way to the sink. A bullet pings neatly off the metal faucet and splits a piece of the wooden cabinet. Water sprinkles from the broken faucet just as glass plates crumble forwards and crash into a million pieces.

 _Yes, just screw the whole kitchen up. Why didn't I think of that_? Clint grumbles in his mind, bringing two more agents down. He has three tranquilizers left in his mag. 

Now that he thinks of it, Clint is surprised the police aren't here yet. Gunshots and bodies hitting walls and dishes crashing everywhere aren't necessarily conventional in this building. It's a prestigious area hence why Natasha chose the penthouse to reside in. And she's always been nothing short of feline-like when it comes to her apartment. Clint has witnessed the other tenants' reactions to her when she passes through the hallways quietly with an invisible force around her that keeps everyone at arm's length. They greet her respectfully but keep their eyes elsewhere. Surely someone would have contacted the cops at this point. Clint bets that SHIELD-not-SHIELD tipped off the local police stations, cutting and redirecting their frequencies to other locations. It's been done before.

He can sense the movement before an agent can level his gun with his head. Clint ducks and thrusts his leg hard into his abdomen to knock him into the counter. He collides sloppily with Natasha's coffee machine knocking it right to the ground. The gun flips in the air as Clint kicks it out the agent's hands. The man comes forward with a loud grunt, one fist swinging Clint's way.

He dodges the first hit, putting his forearms in front of his face. The second hit is a hard blow to his ear. One of his BTEs fall out and Clint starts seeing double. Pain vibrates through his skull and he looses his footing temporarily. The attempted third blow is aimed towards his ribs but Clint catches the agent's fist between his palms and twists his arm inwards. He wrenches a cry from his throat as he rips his arm out the socket.

"Trust me you'd rather it be me than the intended target," Clint promises the agent before tranquilizing him.

He lets his body crumple to the ground in a graceless heap.

Panting, he checks his ear for any bleeding. The skin is tender and hot and dances beneath the pads of his fingers. There's no trace of blood. But he'll bruise in no time.

Clint sucks in a breath at the pounding pain. He picks his hearing aid up off the ground and places it back in his ear delicately, wincing while adjusting the tube. He counts the bodies. Eight, nine, ten, eleven men neatly piled up in Natasha's kitchen. He's just now noticing that his shoes are wet. The puddle from the leaking sink is growing by the second.

There's one agent left to handle and it's their team leader. Most likely the one who thought it was a good idea to issue all of his men into one room. 

"Fun fact, you really shouldn't surprise people. It's not very nice," Clint calls out, stepping over a body while clicking his aids back on. He mostly ignores the fact that one of his ears is having a harder time than usual picking up noise. His feet make a disgusting sloshing sound on the wet marble as he treads forward.

"I'm afraid there's no room for courtesy in this case," the man replies.

The BTEs pick up the sound of the agent cocking his gun. _Oh, so it's like that?_

"No? Not even for the sake of formalities?"

The man doesn't answer and Clint steps out the kitchen, his gun trained on the guy before he can blink.

"A-agent Barton?" the agent stammers. He was expecting the Black Widow. His weapon falters in a moment of perplexity. _Erroneous move_ , _buddy._

Clint pulls a knife from his belt and hurls it at his thigh at lightning speed. The man howls with a red face twisted into an ugly expression of pain and clasps his knee, falling to the floor.

"No room for courtesy here," Clint retorts in kind. He closes the distance between them and angles his left foot against his throat. He trains his gun on him. The man doesn't know it's loaded with tranquilizers and not bullets. "I mean, really? Twelve guys versus the Black Widow? I can't tell if this is some kind of preconditioned sexism that led anyone to believe that the Black Widow can't take on twelve men or just legitimate ignorance," Clint laughs, the heel of his foot putting pressure on the agent's windpipe.

"What's your name?"

The man says something but Clint's ears miss it.

"Repeat that. Louder. I'm deaf," he points to his hearing aids.

"Barrow. Agent Jack Barrow," the man wheezes out.

"Like the pirate? No, don't answer that," Clint lifts his right leg and slams his heel into Barrow's hand when he starts to reach for his pocket. "It's just a fracture, relax. Don't make me break it," he says while the agent screams, as if to mollify him. "Now, answer me. Your orders were to kill Agent Romanoff, correct?"

"Incorrect," Barrow wheezes, lips quivering with effort not to let out another cry of pain. "We were sent to arrest Agent Romanoff. She's a wanted fugitive. Along with Captain Rogers. Haven't you heard? All agents have to report- including you. None of you have made contact with your handlers or come into SHIELD. I only recognized you from the rogue list. You're third under Rogers."

"And if she were to resist arrest?" Clint goes on, making a mental note.

The agent mimics a gunshot with his lips.

"And who exactly gave these orders?"

"You're not- agh!" Barrow shrieks when Clint stomps his foot on his hand a second time, "You're not authorized to know- dammit that _hurts_!"

"Who gave the orders? It certainly wasn't Fury seeing as he's dead. So who then? After Fury comes Pierce right? What has he got against the Widow and Cap? Since when is SHIELD sending teams to execute their top agents who haven't committed treason?"

"You really haven't heard the news?" Barrow hisses, "SHIELD ain't SHIELD no more."

"This isn't about SHIELD. This is about my partner and the fact that you and your men were going to attack her. This is about how angry this makes me knowing that the people she's supposed to trust had intentions of hurting her. This is about the fact that I have a mind to put a bullet in your brain and end this conversation. Seeing as if 'SHIELD ain't SHIELD no more' then I'm free to break regulation, right? No jurisdiction to stop me."

"There's always jurisdiction somewhere, Agent Barton. Everybody answers to somebody. Your boy Fury tried to play god and look where it got him? You think you're safe? None of us are safe. You've been around long enough to know this isn't like talking smack to a bunch of twelve year-olds through a headpiece set with an X-Box controller. Get with the _program_ and take a side, Barton. Agent Romanoff is as good as dead and if you want to join your commie girlfriend, you're free to start digging two graves."

"You're lucky she didn't hear you call her that," Clint says before lifting his foot and crushing his knee.

He shoots a tranq in Barrow's leg before the man's screams can fill the room.

Everything falls silent and motionless afterwards.

Clint's body teems with tension throughout.

It's the same tension he always gets after a fight he wanted no part of. The last time he fought fellow SHIELD agents was when he was under mind control from a demigod having an identity crisis. But there's something separate about this. Something startling about the reality of everything that's happening right this instant.

He feels naked now, violated, and stripped bare with a harsh light shone on him.

Clint is on the outs. And he knows he's been on the outs for a long time since he had gone deaf. Since he had curled in on himself and let the silence deplete him.

Fury always kept him with one ear to the ground and the other towards this sky. His codename Hawkeye doesn't exist without reason. He's a living ocular device: observant, furtive, and resourceful. He would have known. He would have known something was wrong with SHIELD had he not put so much distance between himself and the organization.

He had only been reinstated to field duty last month. Throwing Clint into a rescue mission for an indefinite amount of time (they expected the mission to range anywhere from one to three months) all the way out in Bali was a good away of keeping him unaware of the recent going-ons at HQ.

Not to mention, Clint realizes, pinching the bridge of his nose, he hasn't been in contact with Natasha since their awkward goodbye in the hangar. Now that could be blamed on the fact that the Board had dissolved Strike Team Delta all too eagerly. But Barton knows that it was mostly ~~his~~ their choice to prolong the silent treatment between each other.

A month of zero contact between him and the only woman in the world he'd give his life for. What was he thinking?

He'd been emotional, internalized much of his pain and frustration, and leaped at the biggest bone SHIELD could throw him without even questioning the sensibility of it. It was a good diversion and he hadn't seen it coming.

He had compromised himself. And is still compromised.

It's not about taking sides.

Clint's loyalty could never be questioned. It's always been to Natasha, no matter their circumstances.

Hill trusts him at minimum. She had radioed him about Fury's death and told keep his eyes peeled. She even ordered him to get out of Bali as soon as he could because his men couldn't be trusted. There's Rogers, who Natasha has kept at her side. If he's an ally to her then he's an ally to him. He's not entirely alone in this fight and now Tasha is counting on him. Be it far from him to let her down.

Clint runs stiff fingers through the tufts of his hair before clicking the safety back on and tucking the gun under his pants again. Everything they're going to need is in this apartment. The tranquilizers will keep everyone out for most of the day but it won't be long before SHIELD-not-SHIELD sends a backup team to smoke the place. The clock is still ticking.

Clint gives himself fifteen minutes.


	3. Semblance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a hawk comes to the aid of an eagle, falcon, and a spider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i honestly haven't watched TWS in several months and my memory is actually foggy in terms of remembering the scenes frame per frame. i did go and change some of the dialogue exchanged between steve and natasha (hopefully it's not too ooc) only because the original scenes at sam's house just don't blend in well with how i'm writing this story.
> 
> ps. the ASL in this fic is mostly accurate even though there's some errors here and there. there will be some links at the bottom of the story that actually gives an in-depth description of how ASL actually works. you can really benefit from them. especially to help squash the misconceptions about sign language and grammar that's been perpetuated (not maliciously of course. just people who haven't done a little research) by non-deaf/hoh people.
> 
> ~the sign language is in bold italics ffr~

Natasha can't recall the last time she has ever felt nervousness.

Or anxiety.

Or anything running along the deep-rooted lines of fear.

It's an uninvited emotion, like raw meat on her tongue, foreign and unkind.

The kind of disquiet that does nothing but make one hyper-aware of their surroundings. Not that Natasha has never been hyper-aware of everything encompassing her. Like the way the dust settles on every surface and the different echoes from people's shoes beating outside. Or the way Sam Wilson has a slight hostility towards a man he has yet to meet. Even the way Steve Rogers is oozing tension thick enough to clog a river. And especially the way she's practically gnawing her lip to raw flesh- a nervous tick- because Clint Barton is _late_.

A full twenty-four hours late in fact.

Natasha can count the number of times right off her hand that Clint Barton has been the source of her worries.

His abduction right before the Battle of New York had been the first time. When she really couldn't ensure if she'd actually get him back from Loki in one piece. When she later realized that she had been compromised and was forced to deal with the startling reality of what Clint meant (still means) to her. The night she heard his screams through the comms and found him bleeding from his ears with two protruding arrows. That next morning when she explained to him what had happened to his ears and he looked at her with bloodshot eyes and clenched fists. The way her heart twisted itself out of shape when she watched him board the aircraft to Bali.

She always clamped those feelings between her mind and her heart in a sound place of logic. She can take control of any situation- a stray gunshot rupturing the smoothness of the night, or Clint punching a hole in the wall because he failed a mission, felt that he failed _her_. Natasha is rarely ever thrown off by her internal feelings. When appropriate she knows to let them bleed through her.

Watching Fury die on that table had been one of them. But she still kept herself cold on the surface and collected enough to keep Rogers at arm's length. Even her tears felt ice cold and crystalline.

Perhaps his death was the crux of all of this. Her emotions, held thickly together by one web now slowly eating itself apart and Fury's murder is at it's epicenter.

SHIELD had been something she could be more or less proud of. Something she had grown fond of. Something that let her say 'Look I can do good. I can be better than what I once was' when she'd look in the mirror sometimes. That's how the lie went when she thought she knew whose lies she was reciting.

Natasha never believed in pedestals but Fury had a way about him, an aura of invincibility wavering beneath his surface. With him gone, the reality is far more shattering than she thought it would be. The truth about who she was working for had shaken her. Still shakes her. And now her anxieties have a host to feast on.

What if they loosened up the tension on the Winter Soldier's leash?  

What if they put a certain archer in the Winter Soldier's crosshairs?

What if-

" _Natasha_ ," Steve's voice momentarily stops the scrambling in her brain.

Her eyes travel from the windows in the bedroom she's staying in to the capttain standing next to her.

"You're tense," Steve says, as if it's an explanation she wordlessly demanded for why he's standing there.

"As if you're not?" Natasha calmly retorts.

"Yes but you're anxious-tense," Steve observes. And Natasha really _really_ hates how casually he vacillates between the role of Avenger, SHIELD agent, Captain America, enemy, and friend. "You're worried."

Natasha doesn't deny it. No point in denial. Not at a time like this.

"Barton's gonna make it."

"He's _late_."

"It could be the traffic. I've been around long enough to acknowledge that Washington has the worst traffic. I'm from Brooklyn and I'll be the first to admit it." Steve says and Natasha _almost_ \- almost smiles. He's trying his honest best to assuage the concoction that's rolling around in her stomach. "It's not unlikely that he's treading carefully. It's no picnic getting to Washington without a Quinjet."

Natasha just makes a nondescript _hmph_ noise in response.

"Romanoff," Rogers repeats. But the woman standing beside him is unconvinced. His voice softens. "I don't know Agent Barton very well. But I remember what you were like when Loki took him. I remember how you were reacting to everyone even at the mention of his name. You- he means the world to you. That much I do know. And I know he and I only exchanged two or three words some years ago. But the guy packs a punch like no one else and he's masterfully resourceful. If he can be subdued by dark magic and still help save the planet than I'm damn sure he's gonna get here safely."

Natasha raises an eyebrow, a ghost-like semblance of a smile on her lips. She'll grin at any joke the man pops out of his mouth. She'll smile at him as he holds a door for her. But she won't smile now because Steve is talking about _Clint_ and he doesn't get to see the kind of warmth Clint gives her, the kind of smile that dances on her lips when she thinks fondly of him. He already sees enough.

"How come you can give these pep talks at any opportune time but you still can't smooth talk a lady into having dinner with you?"

"You know what-" Steve shakes his head, muscles bulging while shoving his hands in his pockets. "Give a guy a break."

"What do you think I've been trying to do this whole time?"

Sam Wilson comes up the stairs and enters the bedroom, leaning casually against the door frame to make his guests aware of his presence. Both Steve and Natasha break eye contact to meet his face.

"Breakfast is ready," he announces, "If you two eat that sort of thing."

Steve deflates, running his eyes across Natasha's face before waving an accusing finger at Sam.

"You and Romanoff are very funny." The two hulking men bump shoulders like two frat boys having an inside joke as they crowd through the door, chattering about an entirely new subject Natasha can't bring herself to care about. 

 _They are relatively the same size_ , she notices, watching the two muscly men file behind each other through the doorframe.

It's a weightless thought, neither sinking through her nor storing itself in her mind. It just flourishes into thin air and she sighs, flicking her hair- which is returning to it's naturally curly state since she sweat the straightener out- out of her face and digging into her pocket until she finds a metal chain.

She slides the arrow necklace out and brings it up to her neck, clasping it shut.

It's become sacred to her, now. A more or less safeguard against any outside forces trying to pry their way into her heart, mind, and soul. She's been wearing it nearly every day, even on missions. It made out of the explosion unscathed and good as new. She sees no point in breaking the habit now.

She stuffs her cellphone in her pocket just in case Barton calls while they're eating.

Natasha is pleasantly surprised- and by pleasantly surprised, she means her stomach grumbles and growls before she can take her first step into the dining room- at the banquet lavishing the dining room table. Sam made a mouthwatering breakfast big enough to feed the whole neighborhood and their pets.

"Where did you learn to cook?" Natasha asks, her eyes incredulously glittering as she sits down next to Steve at the table.

At the center of the table is a bowl of croissants with glistening caramelized honey on the tops. To the left is one big plate of buttery apple pancakes from the smell of it and they're still warm, vapor still rising from them. Next to the pancakes are a bowl of fluffy eggs and sausages on the proper side of burnt. Accompanying them is a smaller tray of sliced hashbrowns that Natasha _knows_ tastes divine. To tie the entire arrangement together, at the end of the table lies a neat bowl of strawberries, bananas, pineapples, and berries.

This beats SHIELD's- she winces at the thought of SHIELD- cafeteria services by a far cry.

Sam bears a proud smile that fills his cheeks to the point where they're red and shining.

"This kind of cooking isn't learned from any kind of cooking school. I inherited it from my mom. A little something called soul food with a hint more nutrition and European cuisine," he replies, setting out three white plates and three smaller plates for the extras. Once he passes Natasha and Steve their forks and spoons they dig in immediately.

The amount of food is perfectly proportionate to each of them. Sam being an ex para-rescue and a recovering soldier he must burn a lot of energy. But no one burns as much energy as Rogers does. He hulks down the food, making appreciative noises as he reaches for more pancakes and apologizing for his behavior in between gulps of orange juice. Natasha offers more compliments on the meal than she ever would if this were a normal day. Not that chaos wrapped in a pretense of normality isn't customary for her. Chaos is normal. What isn't normal is being out of sync with the chaos.

Her muscles remain sore from the explosion. Sam had offered painkillers yesterday but Steve's metabolism swallows everything up before it can work and Natasha doesn't do pain suppressants. The resultant headache is a fun punishment for her being characteristically bold. She didn't get too much sleep last night. It was a fitful rest and she ended up kicking the covers off and reveling in the sensation that a force of some kind would reach up, grab her legs, and pull her under the ground.

But the food is so heavenly, that Natasha allows herself to sink into the flavors, all the spices and seasonings, and the butteryness. She revels in the feeling of her appetite being quenched. The peace doesn't last for long, though.

Natasha's thigh vibrates- two quick jolts before a rectangular light flashes beneath the seam of her jeans and her ringtone plays out loud, disrupting the brief calm of the atmosphere.

"That's Barton," she utters before her fork clatters on the plate. She brings the phone up to her ear.

"Hello?"

There's a few seconds of a crinkling noise and soft breathing but no reply from Clint.

Steve furrows his brows when Natasha does.

"Tasha?" Clint's voice is low and raspy like he's hesitant and Natasha's spine stiffens. "My hearing aid batteries died so I can't hear anything. So if I don't respond it's 'cause I don't know what you're saying or if you're saying anything. But you picked up the phone, so obviously-" he stammers because he's rambling and Natasha's worry starts to ease away because it's so _Clint_. "Anyway, can you make sure that Wilson guy knows I'm deaf when he comes to get the door? I don't want this to be any more awkward than it has to be. You should hang up first so I know you heard me. That's me at the door by the way. Kinda standing out here like a jackass..." Natasha's thumb hovers over the 'end call' option on her phone, waiting to see if he's done speaking. 

She clicks 'end call' after ten more seconds of dead silence.

"Barton is deaf," Natasha announces when the chairs screech against the floor as both she and Sam stand up.

"Deaf?" Sam arches his eyebrows, astonished.

"Yes, deaf. And his hearing aids died so he won't communicate that well outside of sign language and lip reading," Natasha adds.

Steve bites his lower lip, realizing all too late that perhaps he or Natasha should have informed Wilson of Barton's deafness earlier. Preferably Natasha being the messenger since she has a tendency to be murderously protective of everything involving her partner.

"Don't worry," Natasha assures him, "I can communicate via sign language. Just be sure to look him straight in his face when you're speaking to him. And be sure to enunciate your words so he can have an easier time reading your lips. Put some emphasis in your face and body language. That goes for both of you."

Sam nods gratefully and goes to open the door, the assassin right on his heels.

Steve just stands and watches through the open archway, on guard but from a distance. He knows what it's like being in a room with Barton and Romanoff.

Sam leans forward, peeking through the peep hole just to be safe even though he's never seen Barton before.

When he unlocks and opens the door, and Clint's form fills the frame, a myriad of questions in multiple languages come pounding in a crushing force at the front of Natasha's skull.

But all these things zero in on the purple-blueish markings on the left side of Clint's face. Like angry splashes of a watercolor painting.

Clint steps inside, one hand extended towards Sam, who takes it in a firm grip and shakes it amiably.

"Hi, I'm Clint Barton. You must be Sam Wilson. Pleasure to meet you," Clint introduces himself even though he knows it's not necessary. He can't hear his own voice so speaks quickly and at a trained volume.

"Pleasure's all mine. I'm glad to be helping a friend of friends. Agent Romanoff insisted that you come and Rogers vouched for you."

Upon the word 'Rogers', Clint's eyes scan past Wilson's face to Steve Rogers, who's not doing a good job of casually blending into the background. They nod a curt hello to each other. He doesn't know it yet but Clint actually likes the man. There's no other SHIELD agent he'd trust more to be with his partner.

"I was starting to think you weren't going to make it. It's not every day that I let a bunch rogue black ops agents into my home..." Sam's voice trails off when Clint's face goes from warm to slightly fazed. "Oh...right...I'm speaking too fast. Sorry. I'll uh, I'll let Romanoff handle the rest." He watches with a mixture of awe and interest as Barton takes a step towards his partner.

 ** _You l a t e,_** Natasha signs the first thing on her mind, her face stern and unforgiving.

Clint's eyes widen, a honest glint of shock at the fluent movement of her hands. This is their first time signing to each other. 

 ** _What happen you?_ ** Natasha mouths the words as she points to the bruises on his face, the curve of her lips careful and considerate.

For some strange reason, even though it's his own home, Sam feels as though he's playing the role of the interloper. As though he's violating the intimacy between them. It shocks him that it registers as something wrong. He swallows, stepping back and joining Steve to give them privacy.

 ** _S-H-I-E-L-D agents_** , Clint fingerspells, noticing how Rogers and Wilson are slack against the wall. _**Ear hit. Bad.**_ Clint raises his eyebrows and points to his left ear to emphasize the damage.

Natasha's jaw falls slack in a split second before she closes her mouth. Pierce must've deployed a squadron to her apartment to take her into custody to the Triskelion most likely. Or to riddle her body with bullets. They must've overwhelmed him once he got inside. He couldn't have anticipated it and she sent him right into a death trap.

Instincts completely taking over her limbs, Natasha cups Clint's face in her hands, craning his head to the side and gingerly pressing her fingers across the markings. The bruising starts around his ear and travels to his temple in splotches reminiscent of the tales he told her of his ugly childhood. She doesn't want to observe him like this. She wants to observe him in private unbeknownst to the not-so-subtle prying eyes. She wants to pick apart his layers one by one until he's raw and unbroken like they've always been behind closed doors.

_Was your mission compromised? Are you hurt? Did anyone follow you? How have you been? Are you still upset with me?  
_

The words never leave her lips. Nor her hands. But they're swimming in her irises and she knows it. 

The energy is timid, nervous, tentative in its own nature. Clint's fingers keep digging into his palm and Natasha watches, waiting for him to sign something, anything to her.

 ** _Yesterday, I get everything,_ ** Clint lifts the conspicuously red and black suitcase that Natasha likes to use for their vacation days and shrugs his shoulder to make the empty (the arrows are in the suitcase) quiver on his back known. He burrows his hand in his pocket and hands her the flash drive he'd been sent to retrieve.

 ** _Good._ _Let me see you._** It's neither a question nor a demand.

Clint knows it's just what's on the surface that Natasha wants to see. He compliantly squares his shoulders and locks his hands behind his back, standing in parade arrest position- a military pose both Rogers and Wilson are all but too familiar with.

He's wearing a Red Sox baseball cap (he must've snagged from a passerby because Clint _hates_ the Red Sox), his hairs blonder than usual from being out for endless hours in the Balinese sun. He's sporting a camo jacket with cargo shorts and generic running sneakers. He had gone for the indubitably American style. He looks strong in his face. Tired, but strong. It's better than hollow cheeks and eyes blacker than the circles beneath them. Better than how Natasha has seen him get before. He's been taking care of himself and that swallows some more of that anxious energy. Makes her feel just that much more secure.

 ** _Damage temporary?_** Natasha motions with her hands, her movements softer but her lips scrunched to the side- a thing she does when she's concerned. He'd already lost a considerable amount of hearing from the stabbing. The fact that he can't hear in his left ear, even when his BTEs were working isn't a good sign at all.

 ** _I hope_ ,** Clint signs back, hands somewhat shaky.

 ** _We figure out,_  **the promise is laced between the movements of her fingers. They have a lot to discuss. And they've been missing each other like hell. But for now, it's time to establish a plan of action. They can't stay here forever and Barton is here for a reason. They have to get things done, personal relationship aside.

Sam and Steve exchange looks that reflect their mutual thoughts when the two ex-agents stop signing with their hands and their arms dangle at their sides.

Steve can imagine it's like telepathy, being able to connect with a significant other without any conscious effort. He had a similar connection once with Bucky. He knows he could've had it with Peggy if they had more time... Somehow he thinks he's gaining more understanding of Natasha more and more these days than he has for the last two years he's known her. He remembers her words earlier in the car when they were driving to the hidden SHIELD base. About her being whoever anyone needs her to be whenever they need her to be that person. It's a way of life for her. A way of protection. He doesn't feign ignorance of the tiny arrow she still has stationed around her neck. He can't help but wonder, though. Who is Natasha for Clint Barton?

"You should come sit in the dining room," Sam finally mumbles, shattering the silence among everyone in the home, "Barton can leave his belongings at the door for now. It's fine."

Natasha translate Sam's words for Clint and he nods, setting the suitcase and quiver down carefully. He pulls his baseball cap off his head, running a hand through the uneven tufts of hair sticking out before shucking his jacket off.  

Natasha slides her fingers into Clint's hand, squeezing them strongly and without hesitation and leads him to the table.

Steve vacates the chair next to hers before Natasha even has to ask him to. She smiles at the soldier, grateful for his acuity before directing Clint to sit next to her. When he sags against the wood of the chair like it's made of Egyptian cotton, it occurs to her that he most likely hasn't had a real chance to rest despite the alertness in his hawk eyes.

 ** _You hungry?_** she asks him because she knows that if Clint puts his mind to it, he can go without a real meal for days on end.

**_No._ **

Natasha motions for Sam to sit back down when he starts to prepare a meal for him.

**_I thirsty._ **

Natasha doesn't hesitate to slide her glass of half-empty orange juice to Clint. She doesn't care that Wilson and Rogers are witnessing this side to her. People always doubt she has the ability to care and nurture.

She observes his adam's apple bobbing sporadically as he gulps down the juice until there's just barely orange liquid swirling around the bottom of the glass.

 ** _You better?_   **Natasha inquires once Clint exhales and sets the glass down.

**_Thank you._ **

**_You speak_?**   Natasha signs firmly, raising her eyebrows and turning her palm outwards towards Sam and Steve so he knows she's talking about speaking to them as well as her.

Clint clears his throat, warming up his throat.

"Sorry I'm late," he enunciates each word slowly, "I'm sure Tasha told you already but my hearing aid batteries died so I took them out. Without them, I can't hear a thing. So I'll do my best to be verbally efficient."

"Do you have any extras on you now?" Steve asks, sounding more worried than he should be. As if it's somehow going to affect his ability to function.

"I can sign to him perfectly fine," Natasha narrows her eyes at him, her tone accusatory and defensive.

"That's not what I _meant,_ " Steve counters, "I don't mean for this to sound in any way offensive to Barton but it would be in everyone's best interest, including his own if he's able to fluidly comprehend what's going on."

Clint nudges Natasha and signs **_explain._**

 ** _I go kick Steve Roger's ass,_ ** Natasha signs sharply, _**You communicate fine.**_

"I _think_ what Rogers means," Sam interjects before everything escalates, "Is that there's a pharmacy about twenty minutes away from here and they sell all kinds of batteries- car, radio, even toy batteries. I'm sure they sell hearing aid batteries as well. What kind does Barton use?"

"They're size 13, 1.45 volts to be exact," Natasha replies while signing to Clint, "Rayovac's the brand you're looking for. They're the only ones that don't drain out the moment you put them in."

"I'll go buy them as soon as the sun starts going down," Sam promises, directing his words to Clint and Natasha translates.

"I didn't mean anything by it, Barton," Steve apologizes, and he reminds Clint of a labrador dog for a moment. He loves labradors. "I know what it's like- I just don't want you feeling left out is all. I'm sorry."

Natasha translates his words, switching between Clint's face and sending glares that feel more like jabs at Steve.

"It's o k," Clint signs the two letters. It wasn't that big of a deal to him but he won't question Natasha's reaction because she has a right to her own feelings.

"So, Barton what's your role in all of this?" Sam brings everything back into focus.

Clint's hands begin to move and some half-sentences slip from his lips as he explains and Natasha translates verbally.

"Barton was high up in the SHIELD rankings, higher than both Rogers and I. Which meant that he got to see things most SHIELD agents shouldn't. He was particularly close to the director of SHIELD," Natasha pauses, fists clenched beneath the table when she realizes she doesn't know if Clint knows if Fury's dead or not, "His codename, Hawkeye, exists for a reason. He's an archer," she watches Sam's eyes cut to her necklace but she continues, unfazed, "And the best sharpshooter known to man. He saw things no one else did which made him perfect for pulling data right from under SHIELD's nose."

"Storing information from the intelligence agency you work for? That doesn't sound like trust." Steve frowns.

"It sounds like the smart thing to do when that said intelligence agency does the same thing to you," Clint retorts after waiting for Natasha to translate.

"Where is this information now?" Sam inquires.

Natasha produces the black and silver flash drive that Clint brought and slides it to the center of the table.

"On there is a portion of SHIELD database. It happens to include the hostages on that were on the Lemurian Star."

"Lemurian what?"

"It's a launch ship manned by a dozen and a half SHIELD agents- analysts, computer techs, coordinators, etcetera. They were taken hostage by a highly skilled French group of mercenaries," Steve explains, "Natasha and I along with the rest of the Strike Team rescued the hostages. Amongst them was one particular agent- Jasper Sitwell."

" _Sitwell_?" Clint gawks. "What was _he_ doing on a launch ship?" even if he can't hear his own voice, he can imagine his face portrays his shock loud and clear.

"I knew something wasn't right about it," Steve nods. "Sitwell's not a field agent. He's a desk agent. There's no reason why he'd be on a boat in the middle of the ocean with launch codes. There's no way Fury could've approved it."

"Who is Jasper Sitwell?" Everyone seems to keep forgetting that Sam isn't a SHIELD agent and this is all very new information to him.

"He's a 'negotiator'- and I use that term diplomatically- for SHIELD. He's the guy the Director sends to keep the US government's hands out of SHIELD's business and turn a blind eye to the agencies' extracurricular activities, so to speak," Natasha's hands move just as deftly as her words flow.

"Does the president know of this?"

"Not exactly. As far as anyone knows, which in actuality means no one, SHIELD is an international peacekeeping organization," Natasha replies.

"But isn't SHIELD the same organization that tried to blow you two to bits?"

Clint's brows crease, a mixture of confusion and worry painted across his features.

 **_What?! When?!_** he signs to Natasha with panicked hands.

"You didn't tell him?" Rogers asks and Clint shoots him a bewildered glare. 

"Tell me what?"

 _ **SHIELD compromise,**_ Natasha's fingers move as if there's little life left in them, **SHIELD-not-SHIELD. SHIELD H Y D R A,** she fingerspells, arms dropping to her sides like a symbol of defeat.

**_Hill said-_ **

**_I know,_** Natasha interjects, an empty plead for him to drop it.

 **_Explosion?! You hurt?!_** It angers him that he couldn't detect that she had been under attack. She's his partner for goodness' sake, he's supposed to notice these things firsthand!

 ** _We live,_ ** Natasha reminds him.

 _ **We talk,**_ Clint's body thrums with tension. _ **  
**_

_**L a t e r,**_ she promises.

Hydra. He rolls the word around on his tongue, deciding he doesn't like the taste of it. As if it wasn't traumatic enough being hollowed out by a demigod and stuffed with the need to kill, as if it wasn't mentally draining enough for him to know that he had been directly responsible for the deaths of so many agents. Now SHIELD is compromised with Hydra's emergence. Everything has been a flat out lie. Fury is dead. Hill had warned him. His own men tried to kill him. All the dots connect to one ugly humongous spiderweb. To put it aptly, they're screwed.

"So who is it that we're looking for then?" Sam inquires.

"Aw heck," Clint buries his face into his hands like he's about to fall apart, "Sitwell is definitely our guy," his voice shifts with the sudden cognizance, "Fury had me monitoring him a few times. He didn't appreciate him going the extra mile with the negotiations. Sitwell seems to hang in the Senators' circle every once in a while." 

"What would the Senate have to do with SHIELD?" Steve asks.

"Absolutely nothing. They don't get a say," Natasha replies.

"I know Fury had his suspicions about Sitwell. He would've assigned me to confirm everything but well, this happened," Clint points to his ears, signing briefly in between his words out of personal habit.

"Do you think he knew, then? That someone was staging a coup?" Steve speaks softly.

Clint signs his response and Natasha translates.

"He doesn't know. He just has a feeling. All he knows for certain is Sitwell is guy we're after."

"Where would we even find him?" 

"He's probably doing clean up. After Hydra sent that missile, I'm sure Sitwell was sent where the embers have gone," Natasha retorts.

 _ **No,**_ Clint signs, shaking his head, _**Senator Stern. He with him.**_

"How can you be sure?" Natasha asks, watching as Clint picks up the flash drive and holds it up.

"Senator Stern had some connection to a terrorist organization that set out to kill Tony Stark," Clint lowers his voice. _**Remember Abidjan Operation?**_

"Abidjan Operation was a mission we did to dismantle a group of extremists that Senator Stern had some involvement in. They were after Tony Stark. I don't know if any of you recall Stern's televised broadcasting of his animosity towards the Iron Man suits. He was hellbent on getting those designs signed over to the US government."

" _You've_ dismantled rising terrorist organizations to protect Tony Stark?!" it's Sam's turn to gawk.

"Look, we're not particularly fond of the guy. We just went where SHIELD sent us did what they said. SHIELD liked Stark where he was. Stern did not. Sitwell being in Stern's inner circle is more than enough evidence we need. Barton's right. Sitwell's our guy."

"Damn," Steve sighs, leaning back against the chair, "I'll bet my best dollar he's planning on meeting Stern tomorrow."

"And Clint here knows exactly where," Natasha nods at her partner, signing his name to let him know who she's talking about. A soft smile plays on her lips when he leans in some.

"It won't be easy. I need skyscraper/rooftop access," Clint says while his hands sign the words.

"I know just how to help with that," Sam grins.

"You got a suit?" Steve raises an eyebrow.

"That's one way of putting it," Wilson replies and neither Clint nor Natasha know why but they both smile slowly at the realization of a brewing comradeship.

They just might stand a chance in this fight after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to skim through these. it's actually quite helpful :))
> 
> http://www.lifeprint.com/asl101/pages-layout/grammar.htm  
> http://www.dummies.com/how-to/education-languages/languages-cultures/sign-language/ASL-Grammar.html  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Sign_Language_grammar


	4. Behind Closed Doors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: sexytimes below because i couldn't resist ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ and i apparently have a penchant for writing things i have zero experience in. also steve is very good at being able to tell when a man and a woman needs to have some special alone time. :)

Steve takes the couch.

There's three bedrooms in Sam's home: the master bedroom, and two guestrooms. One of which is unfurnished and the other is just barely furnished with one bed large enough for two people, a dresser, and a hamper. Steve, though he had originally been sharing the guest room with Natasha, immediately volunteers to sleep on the couch in the living room. Maybe it's because it's so heavily ingrained in him to be selfless or maybe (most likely) it's because he sees right through Clint and Natasha and the fact that they need the bedroom to themselves.

And yeah, he's Steve Rogers, yeah he's a man out of his time, but he's not an _idiot_ , not by any stretch of the word.

Natasha is a live wire and Barton is a flickering flame and they need to work out their differences in private. Not just for each other's sake, but for the sake of the mission's fluidity. The energy between them is too dense, too palpable. And they can't go out taking on a whole organization while two of their teammates have kinks to straighten out.

So he takes the couch, extracting a pillow and a blanket from Sam's linen closet, and nods at Natasha and Clint while they head up the stairs. Everyone had agreed to call it a day shortly after unanimously consenting on a plan of action and a fulfilling meal. Sam had purchased the hearing aid batteries for Clint, he in turn, had gotten his "hearing" (because no matter how high he turns his hearing aids up, it doesn't make his hearing perfect) back, and Natasha loosened the reigns on her partner now that he had gotten some functionality back.

It's evening time, far from the hours anyone would take to for sleep, but there's a dangerous and exhaustive lingering in the air that makes everyone agree to retire to their respective spaces. It's the kind of exhaustion that brings lazy, broken smiles and frustrated grunting at no one in particular.

Everyone is tired in one form or another. Natasha and Steve are both still recovering from the explosion and Clint is worn out from getting his ass kicked two days in a row in two separate countries. They'll have to be ready at the break of dawn and will need all the sleep they can possibly get. Though every single person in the home knows that even when the lights go out, their eyes will remain wide open.

The two assassins follow each other up the stairs to the guest bedroom, flicking the light switch on.

As soon as the door clicks shut and their belongings hit the floor, Clint wraps his arms around Natasha, pulling her into a deep embrace and she lets herself get sucked into it.

It's been too long since she felt the firm planes of his disciplined muscles enclosed around her.

Before he can even open his mouth, Natasha looks up, hair frizzing and coiling around her face. She doesn't even prompt him. She clasps his jaw in those deceitfully small hands of hers and pulls his head down, their foreheads touching. With the light behind him, menacing shadows are cast across his face, aging him unkindly. He's still beautiful to her, even with the way the lines on his forehead are starting to break now that they're alone. Clint wants to kiss her lips. He doesn't know if he should but he wants breathe her air in, wants to give her his own oxygen and seal her lips with his. He makes a small pleading noise.

"What's the matter? How's your hearing?" Natasha asks, her eyes focused on the expression on his face. Her breathing is a gentle flutter against his cheeks. 

"My ear still hurts but the residual hearing is...well...residual," Clint replies, offering the smallest smile he can. "It's just...I feel a little strange. Tricky stuff."

"You're telling me," Natasha retorts.

"Am I? What happened with Rogers? What have I missed?" _What have I missed while I was busy feeling sorry for myself instead of being there for you?_

Natasha closes her lips and Clint pulls away, finding the bed and plopping down on the rumpled sheets.

"I guess we have a lot to discuss," Natasha joins him, skirting her fingertips around his legs, prompting him softly to let her in.

"Yeah," Clint nods, watching her fingertips dancing on his knee in a nervous rhythm. She's never this tense without reason. And usually it's bad for her to be left alone to her devices, to her poisonous thoughts. It's like lighting a fuse and watching the crackling fire trail it's way home. He had recognized how self-conscious and riled up she was earlier. Natasha having any kind of emotional breakdown can be explosive and harmful to anything within her radius. His calloused fingers brush against hers to still her finicky movements and her bright green eyes, chafed by worriment meet his own. "Tell me what happened."

"Fury's dead," Natasha sputters. It's more of a choke.

"I know," Clint's eyes never leave hers. Her palm turns up beneath his and their fingers clasp together, "Hill told me. I don't think I've accepted it yet..."

"Rogers and I were on the outs." There's a gloss over Natasha's eyes that reflect how Clint feels on the inside. "We had to get answers on our own. One of the flash drives Fury had us guarding so closely had more than just launch codes on it. It had coordinates to a hidden SHIELD base in New Jersey. The base was from Rogers' era, all original vintage tech with sensitive information locked and discarded away off SHIELD official record. Someone wanted it kept private and unknown."

"Except Fury. He held on to that information, regardless of what came of it. He knew he could trust you."

"He trusted Rogers more," Natasha replies, face hardening.

"Because he knew Rogers would know where to look giving that it's familiar territory. I'm guessing where you and Rogers went was where Hydra revealed itself."

Natasha nods, eyes narrowing as the same feeling of hostility that she felt when she watched Zola's computerized face on the enormous screen slithers down her spine. "The flash drive opened a computer program preset from ages ago. Everything came out about Hydra hiding in between the guises of SHIELD. For years, as SHIELD was expanding and becoming more powerful, as was Hydra. We're talking loyalists who have been with SHIELD since its creation." Her intuition tells her that someone on the World Security Council knows something. There's no way any of this was going on without at least one person's knowledge. "The information was a diversion. We were so distracted we didn' realize the computer program sent HQ our location and next thing we knew, SHIELD sent a fat bird our way. I would have been a burnt corpse had Rogers and his beloved shield not been there with me."

"Shit, Nat," Clint groans, clenching his fists, " _Shit_!" he growls again.

"Don't get angry," Natasha softly warns, "There's no point. Not yet."

"How did Cap take it?"

"I can't get much of a read on him. He's...expressionless. I know it bothers him. It angers him even. I'll bet he thinks he went through all of the things he did for nothing." 

"I keep asking myself 'how did this happen'. How could this have happened and we never noticed that something wasn't right? Not even once?"

"Maybe we did. I can think of a handful of missions that rubbed me the wrong way. But the worst is yet to come. This is just the tip of iceberg for all of us. For Rogers especially." She doesn't want him to ask what she means by it. Instead, she nudges his thigh with her knee. "Tell me about Bali. Tell me where you were when all of this was happening."

"Bali was a disaster," Clint reveals, rubbing his abdomen subconsciously, "I had a hard time getting out."

 _"_ You lost contact in Bali," Natasha states the obvious.

"Yeah, my radio went dark. Hill relayed a message to me warning me about SHIELD being compromised after she told me about what happened to Fury. It's good to know she was counting on me not being Hydra. But the rest of the men in my unit, well, I couldn't say the same." Clint's hand gets lost in the tendrils and coils of her thick red hair, fingers getting tangled in between the strands before flexing against her scalp. "Next thing you know, all comms go dark. Even the phone lines were cut. No wi-fi, nothing. Morse code? Can't get a signal out." 

"Signal jammer," Natasha breathes out, mapping out the entire scene in her mind. She can see Clint, alert and confused, slightly panicked but still in enough control to have gotten out alive. This was all premeditated. It was a death trap disguised as a rescue mission. She reminds herself to hack SHIELD's mission logs if she'll ever get the chance to find who set up the mission so she can crack some necks.

"Outside my door I hear bullets and guys shouting tactical orders. At first I thought we were under attack and I grabbed the closest thing to me, which was my trusty P30. All of a sudden, the men who were in my unit- men I was responsible for bringing home to HQ-  kick down my door demanding my surrender and arrest."

"Hydra," Natasha shakes her head, picturing him in the situation "Even Agent Kelley? With the newborn baby?" 

"And St. Claire and Roberts and freaking Hadley," Clint keeps a mind not to indent his frustration into her scalp. "All of them. Traitors. I hauled ass of course. To think it was my job to get them back home alive and well. To think I gave a damn about some of these people. I got to know some of those assholes, really got to know 'em. Turns out they're all Neo-Nazi loyalists. Had to make a few head shots in order to get out alive. Couldn't even grab my bow before breaking out."

Natasha closes her eyes, nuzzling her nose into the skin on her arm. She's not sorry he killed them. She's just sorry for the betrayal. SHIELD meant different things to and for the both of them. One thing they had in common with SHIELD was the sense of home and belonging.

"Half our possessions were at HQ," Clint mumbles and Natasha leans in closer to him, resting her head against his shoulder.

The only way they can go back to SHIELD now are as prisoners. And she'll split the ocean floor wide open before she's ever in handcuffs again. She'll fight through concrete until the flesh above her knuckles are torn and the bones beneath them are shattered before she loses Clint to any one else ever again. Not to some demigod. Not to some clown freak. And certainly not to an entire international organization.

When this is all over, they'll have to run again.

"At least I still have this," Natasha sits up, nodding at her arrow necklace. She knows that Clint noticed the piece of jewelry when he first came here.

"Yeah?" Clint smiles, hooking his index finger beneath the chain, light glinting off the metal arrow, "This some kind of way of staking your claim on me or is there some other archer I don't know about that likes to buy my lady some nice things?"

"I bought the necklace last year, actually," Natasha confesses, flicking her curls behind her shoulders, "During our second weekend in the Maldives. A woman was selling jewelry in a crowded market and it caught my eye."

"This tiny thing caught your eye? Really? Natasha, even I would have missed this. Admit it. You were specifically looking for this weren't you," Clint teases and for a moment, in the air of confusion and hurt, smiles crinkle the skin around their eyes and their stomachs grow warm with laughter.

"Don't flatter yourself too much. I didn't actually wear it until last month," Natasha says, one eyebrow raised in playful indignation.

"Why wait so long?"

"Just needed to remind myself of something," Natasha says softly, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth. He doesn't need to ask her what it was she needed a reminder for. "Anyways, I got too comfortable, I suppose."

"You earned the right to be comfortable," Clint threads his guilty fingers through her curls and she leans further into his touch, "It's my fault. I brought you into this mess in the first place."

"How is it your fault?" Natasha pulls back, sitting up. A warning crease sits between her brows. "It was my choice. _Mine_. You may have showed me the door but I could have shut it in your face. Instead I walked through. I made the choice to do this. I made the choice to join SHIELD, to be here now, still fighting for things I've learned to believe in. It's my own doing. Don't turn this into a guilt fest, Clint because it's the last thing we need right now."

"I still shoulda been there for you, Tasha. I've got no excuse."

"You were on duty in Bali."

"Before that, I mean. I was too busy being a selfish asshole. I didn't think for a second how all of this," Clint waves to his ears, "Might have been affecting you."

"Doesn't matter," Natasha replies curtly.

"Like hell it doesn't. Don't give me that bull, Nat, I know I was pushing you away. Even when I was making progress in physical therapy. Even after I learned sign and got the hearing aids. I kept pushing you away because I was so occupied with my own selfish feelings and feeling like my worth was somehow degraded by my disability. I could have hurt you. Hell, I...I did. I _know_ I hurt you. It was so stupid, pushing you away even when I really needed you most. When you left to go with the Captain on that Lemurian Star op, it felt wrong. The way we said goodbye felt too wrong. And we left things on a bad note and I'm _sorry_ , Tash. I'm sorry for the shit I put you through."

"Hey," Natasha grips his jaw between her thumb and forefinger, "Stop talking and think. I made the choice to put distance between us too."

"Yeah but-"

" _Hush_ ," Natasha hisses. The command in her voice is sharp and paralyzing. Clint surrenders under her grip. "We're both equally culpable for this. I almost died. And yeah, regimes fall every day, but not like this. I almost got blown to pieces and the wrong man was standing at my side when that missile hit. It should've been you with me, yes. But there's no second-chances, no do-overs. Fury is gone. He's not coming back. He coded, right in front of me. F-first Coulson and now Fury. Everything we thought we knew isn't real. So the last goddamn thing on my mind is you not being there for me then. It's not about the hurtful things that were said and unsaid, or whatever it was that was going on between us last month. It's about you being here now. You being here, alive and breathing, and here with me. It's about me needing you. Not needing you but-" Natasha's lips press together in frustration.

"What are you trying to tell me, Tasha?" Clint whispers, voice seemingly whipped into the open air.

"I need for you not to die," she blurts, eyes laced with a bare tint of red, "Because we lost really important people to us, Clint and even if SHIELD has gone to hell, this isn't over yet and I can't _lose_ you." As ridiculous and borderline damsel-in-distress as it sounds, her words are veritable and from the core of every emotion churning in her heart.

Clint's expression changes with newfound understanding and his fingers slither from her grip and trace the contour of her jawline. He can't help the small gasp that escapes his lungs.

"You haven't lost me then, Natasha. You're not gonna lose me now," he affirms, all softness in his reverence and promise.

In response, Natasha whispers something in Russian, hooking an arm around his neck and pulling him in. No warning, no hesitance, she translates by sliding her lips over his. She swallows his surprised words, feeling a flush burn across her cheeks. Clint cranes his neck forward, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her back in like passion. Her words burn into the innermost parts of him. _I can't lose you._ She was afraid. The Black Widow was afraid. A small part of him strikes hot with anger. Then it cools and all he can think of is helping her get rid of that feeling of fear.

He won't deny how he wraps his arms just a little tighter around her, he won't deny how his hands hold onto her hips as he deepens the kiss. Natasha encourages him with her tongue, coaxing his lips open so she can taste the warm cove of his mouth. It sets something off in both of them.

Clint's hands remain secured on her waist, even as Natasha shifts her weight forward, laying them down on the bed until Clint is on his back and Natasha's arms are locked around his neck.

The plastic casing beneath the sheets crinkle as they roll around the mattress, tongues sliding across each other, teeth clacking against each other, lips caught between each other in a desire that's rapidly growing unbridled. Natasha is the first to moan as quietly as she can, nails scraping against Clint's scalp as she tugs on the tufts of his hair while yanking his face to the side.

She can have deeper access this way. It's passionate filth, the way she undulates her tongue into his mouth until Clint can barely breathe and it's cathartic. Her decided rhythm is selfishly motivated and she knows she's taking more than she's giving, even while he's moaning softly against her tongue. This is the kind of kissing they do when the world feels like it's falling apart and perhaps if they hold on to each other long enough, everything will stop crumbling.

Natasha's breaths are loud like a roaring river in Clint's hearing aids while she's this close to him. Her lips find their way from his mouth to his cheeks where she kisses them. She drags her lips to his nose and up to his closed eyelids with two chaste pecks before hovering down to his neck. Clint groans into the air when he feels her hot breath on his neck, bearing in mind that surreptitiousness is key if they are in fact about to make love ( ~~have rough sex? screw? bang?~~ ) in Sam Wilson's home.

Surreptitiousness is bound to be thrown out the window the moment Natasha's teeth carefully sink into the tempting flesh there. Clint can feel her eyelashes fluttering against his skin as she goes to work. The faint bulge in his cargo shorts go from faint to fully erect as soon as Natasha rocks her hips against him. He can feel the furnace of her desire between her legs, radiating through her jeans. His big archer hands spread themselves over the round of her behind to hold her there while he rolls his hips beneath her to feel that heat again. The heat only a woman can produce. The heat of _Natasha_.

"I want to _see_ you," Natasha hisses, pulling back from his neck because she doesn't want him to bruise there. This is not about becoming familiar with each other again or trying to remind each other what sex feels like. They've been apart for longer periods of time, they've gone as long as eight months apart at one point and still, when they came together behind closed doors at SHIELD, it was like a day had barely passed. This is about sinking into something earth-like. It's about holding on to something while the world is spinning too fast.

Clint complies, crossing his arms at the tails of his shirt and sliding it up over his head. Natasha's eyes trace every tense and release of his muscles, her gaze trained and observant and hungry. If she wants to take from him, he'll give everything he has. He holds his breath as long as he can while her eyes trace his whole surface. He thinks her irises are on fire, two bright flames in the forest green of her eyes.

"What's this?" Natasha demands, splaying her hands against his taut abdomen where more deeply hued bruises are splotched across his muscles.

"One of the Hydra goons," Clint explains, "From Bali. Got me real nice. It's not that bad. I've had worse." 

She doesn't let him continue with that line of thought. _I've had worse._ God, doesn't she know. Doesn't she know in excruciatingly intimate detail how much worse he's had it.

Her bottom lip drags across the plethora of silvery scars from a shrapnel wound under his pectorals. That's from Bulgaria when he was captured and pumped with drugs and she had almost been too late to save him from the worst of the blast in he factory. She has a similar wound on her back, though not as violent on her because she takes better care of her skin and made good use of SHIELD's plastic surgeon for scar tissue correction and laser removal for scars that couldn't be absconded by basic cosmetics.

Sue her for having insecurities about some of her scars.

Clint, though. He's fearless. He's a living testament to the concept of fearless. He wears his scars like armor. Like tally marks. _I've had worse, so do your worst_. 

Natasha flips her hair to the side, spin twisting in a way it shouldn't be able to while she continues her oral exploration of his skin. Fingers raking against his nipples to harden them, she flicks her tongue over them to soothe the ache her nails left behind. She flicks her tongue across his hardened nipples before dragging her bottom lip over skin stretched across his abs. She's sure to kiss each muscle gingerly, not wanting to upset his bruising. Clint's brain begins shorting out as she darts her tongue into his navel before nuzzling her nose against the dark trail of hair that leads down to a very special place between his legs. He looks down, the expanse of his torso tanned and scarred and blemished by the beautiful red curls on Natasha's head as she slides down. His cock, fully erect, twitches in earnest.

"Tasha," Clint startles, beating a clenched fist against the mattress, "Should we be doing this? Is this the right time for this?"

"There's never a right time," Natasha answers, her left hand slowly gliding up and down against his bulging crotch. "We've screwed in buildings that were about to crumble on us. It's when it isn't the right time that it's the best time." She squeezes him, a knowing look on her face. "Unless you don't want to do this?"

Clint bucks his hips upwards in response, groaning and needing and exposed. He thinks he can feel his own heartbeat in his crotch. It's not nearly enough friction and Natasha knows it. Her hand vanishes and he fights his response to gawk at her in disappointment. Bottom lip caught between her teeth, Natasha sits back on her knees, sliding her black tank top over her head and tossing it where Clint had thrown his shirt. Barton swallows, pupils dilating to the point where his grey eyes are two cavernous black holes. They follow the titillating bounce of her pale breasts, movement controlled by her bra. Animal. Hawk. Hers.

"God, Tasha," Clint whimpers and he knows they've earned this chance, just this once before tomorrow, to kiss until their lips are sore, to touch each other, to have each other, to feel alive.

Natasha leans back some more, his crotch digging into the curve of her ass, her curls tousled, the same flush that froths across her cheeks traveling down to her breasts. Clint has two favorite looks on his partner. The first is when her hair is pulled into a tight bun with bandages across her arms, a dark tank top and his sweatpants that she never returned, and a mug of tea in her hand while she's resting from a completed mission. The second is the look she's wearing now. A plain black bra with very minimal makeup on, lips swollen and pinker than usual, her breathing haphazard like she just finished running for her life, and her face glowing and alive and ready.

"I've got to have you, Clint," Natasha whispers, her hand reaching down and petting his groin again. "Now."

Clint leans up, ignoring the protests of his bruises, locking his strong tanned arm around her waist and burying his face into the cusps of her breasts. He swears, hearing aids and all, he can hear fire roaring and the crackling of a furnace beneath her bosom. His fingers miraculously find the clasp of her bra and Natasha slides it off without hesitation, arching her back somewhat as if directing Clint where she wants his mouth.

Clint is happy to comply. Keeping her secure, he cups her right breast with those large calloused fingers of his and slides the pad of his thumb across her nipple until it stiffens to a pretty pink peak. Natasha sucks her bottom lip into her mouth again, eyes fully opened and focused. She watches, cradling Clint's skull in her hand as he latches onto her right breast, rolling the tip of his tongue across her nipples before sucking it into his mouth and holding on.

Natasha's underwear are soaked beneath her jeans while she writhes, now desperate for friction where she needs it most. She'll have to peel the material off of her like it's her own skin melting away. Clint keeps sucking until her skin squeaks beneath his tongue and he frees her nipple before going to work on her left breast, lavishing it, rolling his tongue over and over before pulling back to pinch and pull her hard nipples. She moans-whimpers at the revolving sensations of hot-slick tongue and calloused pinching fingers over her breasts. Only he can make her feel this good at a time like this.

"You're always so good," Natasha smiles, spewing the rest of her thoughts into the air. She caresses Clint's face, looking into his stormy eyes before kissing him gratefully. The soft moment quickly fades back into haste as she lifts up to undo her jeans.

Clint's fingers reach out, detecting her movements. She starts to make a face when he interrupts her but then Clint's fingers take her place, eyes never leaving hers as he undoes her fly and pulls her jeans down along with her soaked underwear before shedding the rest of his garments. They leave her necklace on. Shoes and pants and shirts and underwears are a mess quickly forgotten as Natasha pushes Clint back down against the bed.

The mattress huffs and the bed springs squeal with the impact of his body.

"I don't have any sanitary wipes on me," Clint sputters, "I don't think I'll be able to-"

"We'll figure something out," Natasha assures him.

His palms, now dewy and warm spread out against Natasha's thighs. He wants so badly to stroke her clit, to at least spend a good hour between her legs with her thighs clamped on his ears while he explores her with his tongue but he knows what Natasha wants is him inside her right now.

She makes a point of it by grabbing his cock and he bucks up into her fist. He feels like he's fifteen again, already about to come at the first brush of her fingers on him. He thinks Natasha will take pity on him and the fact that he hasn't been with her in a long while but she doesn't. Clint chokes- yes, chokes, when she takes his length and hovers over him, sliding her hips over his shaft until he's generously lubricated with her slick.

Natasha then angles her hips before sinking down and taking him in until he's so far deep, he's a part of her. And she hums "finally" in Russian like she's been waiting for this forever and ever. She rolls her hips experimentally and the first sparks of pleasure cocktailed with the subtle burn of her walls clenching around his cock as she adjusts to the feeling of being filled fly through her.

She can't help the broken noise she makes. She wants so badly to lose control. He feels too good. Always has and always will.

"Oh god, Tasha," Clint croaks once she plants her hands firmly on his chest and starts rocking her hips hard against him.

Natasha grits her teeth, trying her best not to make any noise. Small gasps and whimpers leak between her breathy sighs of pleasure. Clint knows those sounds. It's the sound of control steadily slipping through her grip. Her eyebrows crease with true effort not to make noise while she rides him. But god, the look on her archer's face while she bucks, the way his eyes are relentlessly intent with pleasure and adoration and something more than neither of them can label, god it's chipping away her resolve piece by piece. Her clit brushes against his pelvic bone, sprinkling bursts of pleasure throughout her. She imagines she's gone from faint flush to complete crimson from her cheeks all the way down to the tips of her breasts.

They reckon Steve or Sam ought to have figured out what's going on behind the closed door. Or anticipated it. They had to have. Steve especially. In fact, now that Natasha thinks of it, he was probably counting on them doing something along these lines, at least to work out the excess energy that was buzzing in the air. She'll have to figure out a way to thank Rogers for his deep consideration in the near future when this is all over. But for now, well, she's gratefully distracted.

"Tasha," Clint gasps, eyes switching between the bounce of her breasts, her curls dancing, her lips parted while she whines quietly. He can't bear to watch her suffer like this, trying to contain herself while she's rutting against him but not getting the release she needs. Clint plants his feet firmly against the mattress, digging his big hands into her hips and begins to thrust upwards.

It's Natasha's turn to choke and her entire body shudders like an electric shock rippled through her. Clint knows he's hitting that sweet spot nestled deep inside of her. He keeps thrusting upwards, fascinated with the utter bliss on Natasha's face. She buries her nails into his pectorals as her face breaks into multiple expressions of pure pleasure, her entire body stilling as she sucks in a breath that swivels into a low keening. He rams into her with gritted teeth and she finally gets the hint when he brings her hips down with intent. 

"Yes," Natasha cries out before covering her mouth as she cants her hips downwards. It's a grand world of delirium, watching her fuck herself so ruthlessly onto him. And he wants her to, needs her to consume him until she's full and he's empty. Sex for them has always been a matter of give and receive, sometimes giving more than receiving. "Don't stop, yeah?" she requests, gasping and sighing.

"Not stopping anytime soon," Clint grunts out in response, his left hand sliding between them and thumbing her clit.

"Oh f- _Clint_ ," Natasha whimpers mindlessly. She's overthrown by the simultaneous sensations and she knows she's on the brink of a good long orgasm. She ruts against him frantically. Her voice horse, she whispers encouragement into her partner's hearing aids.

"Clint...k-keep going...O bozhe moy,. _.f...uc_...." the words never entirely leave her mouth. Clint just keeps slamming up into her while his thumb keeps circling her clit, winding her farther and farther until she finally snaps. Falling forward and emptying her cry into his mouth, she shatters completely, coming hard with quaking thighs and Clint just keeps going, his cock sliding over that spot over and over again to draw her climax out to the very last wave.

Clint rolls them over, and Natasha locks her ankles around his back, hugging him close to her. She's so warm, feminine, deadly, beautiful, enigmatic, powerful, all the adjectives aren't enough to epitomize what she is to Clint Barton. He doesn't take long to come like this. She's so wet he slides in deep, fitting his face into the curve where her shoulder meets her neck and he's entrenched in the sensation of Natasha. She digs her nails into his shoulder before settling her hands against the curve of his ass where she can feel his muscles clenching and unclenching with great effort. She kneads the smooth muscle, slaps his ass encouragingly and squeezes again, quietly begging him in Russian to succumb and orgasm. Clint growls, pounding into her over and over until he finally br _eaks_. A white hot flash explodes at the base of his spine and he's coming so ridiculously _hard_ inside of her.

He can't think. All he feels is Natasha's walls wringing every ounce of his come until he's sated and limp.

His mouth is open against her neck and he might be too loud as he pants hoarsely into her skin. He doesn't care. He just had fantastic reunion sex with his girlfriend (it's been years and he still can't see himself calling Natasha his girlfriend out loud without getting a ball kneed up his throat), timing be damned. He's going to revel in this as long as he can. When it's safe, he pulls out of her with a sigh, and lays on his side to avoid further hurting his abdomen.

"I missed you so damn much," Clint speaks at normal volume once the storm breaks and calms. 

"I could tell," Natasha laughs, rolling to her side even as her muscles silently protest it.

"Excuse me, I'm not the one who was moaning in Russian," Clint chuckles and he _'s back_ and it tickles a place inside Natasha's heart. She can't resist leaning forward and kissing his lips softly.

"Thank you for this."

"Aw, Tash-"

"I mean it. I'm really glad you're here, Clint," her voice grows quiet, "The world's on fire right now."

Clint peers down at his partner through his dark lashes, reading the truth etched into her features. He knows precisely what she means. When the world's on fire, they've always stood back to back, muscles taut and weapons drawn. When Natasha says the world is on fire, she means she needs something to fall against, something solid and confident and unfailing. When Natasha says the world is on fire, she means she needs the man laying above her.

"Looks like you're in the right business then," Clint replies and it's all he has to say without saying.

About an hour later after cleaning up and climbing beneath the covers, the moon filters into the bedroom unevenly, and Clint clicks his hearing aids off, pulling them out of his ears and setting them on the nightstand. He tries to maneuver without waking the assassin who decided to use three-fourths of his body as a pillow. Not that he's complaining. Her body temperature is warm but the metal of the arrow around her neck is still cold, separate, alive in it's own symbolic way. Clint rests one arm behind his head and the other he uses to pull a sound asleep Natasha Romanoff closer into him. Or at least he thought she was sound asleep. 

"Close your eyes, yastreb," her husky voice cuts into the night, "Big day tomorrow..." before her lids flutter shut.

Clint wonders, genuinely from the honest depths of his heart, if she knows he will never leave her.

He wonders, even as he yawns and closes his eyes, if she really believed him when he said she wouldn't lose him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that's all folks! Had fun writing this, even if it took me forever to crank the last chapter out. Please comment below, share your thoughts. Thanks for reading. ^-^

**Author's Note:**

> * i have bilateral hearing loss so i have experience (although i was born with it. i wasn't stabbed in the ears like poor clint)  
> * i did use google translate for the Russian because unfortunately I don't speak Russian and so I apologize if the grammar or verb conjugations are incorrect. Not meant to offend any native Russians that might be reading this.  
> * i do appreciate comments


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